Hell's Half Acre (10 page)

Dark outside and moonless. I stand in the middle of Miller’s road, staring at his mailbox. Bullet hole in bright metal. I wonder if there are phantoms out tonight. Neighborhood kids with spirit. I touch my hand to my mouth and wonder if Jude will smell Molly on me. It doesn’t matter. Jude pushed me at these people and now there’s a
small body of water between me and the King James Hotel. I should go east but I won’t.

Fool for Love.
I know that play, yeah. Three people in a room, two of them lovers. Tortured, forbidden. The third is an old man who may or may not be real. Then another man enters, the hapless blind date, who one might suppose represents the unsuspecting audience because the two lovers proceed to fuck with him without mercy. I have never seen a live production but I have seen the movie with Kim Basinger and Harry Dean Stanton a few times. It’s a tight, claustrophobic picture. One long act, relentless. Four people in a room, crashing into walls. Four people turning inside out. Four people in a room and the whole time you’re wondering which one of them is going to get killed.

Down the black, winding hill. Lost and then not. I wander along Telegraph a while. Faces bright and searching. The infinite flow of tourists and junkies and homeless guys and skate rats and lost hippies and spare changers and vendors and privileged boys and girls. This is the sweet hate machine of human chaos and no one wants to be noticed, no one wants to be saved. My brain is a rattling trap and I think it would not be easy to live here. I have a low tolerance for the culture of emptiness. I buy cigarettes and a green slushy drink at a convenience store. Brief overhead view of myself through the store’s surveillance camera. Black and white. I’m looking through the eye of a fish. The subject is a white male, late thirties. Medium height and thin. Dark circles under pale eyes, unshaven. Dirty blond hair. Brown leather coat and blue jeans and black T-shirt. He is not a student, not a thief but possibly an English professor, which makes me laugh at myself.

I walk until I come to the BART station. The machine that dispenses tickets is complex and unforgiving, but I manage to buy a ticket without causing a scene. The platform is crowded with people who don’t look at each other. I want a cigarette but the use of tobacco is prohibited in California, everywhere it seems.

I crouch against a wall and wait.

Drunk white guy shambles up and down the platform. He wears torn gray pants stained with bodily fluids and he’s looking for someone to talk to. Young black girl sits on a bench, reading a book. Drunk white guy sits down next to her and everyone on the platform takes a breath.

I love to eat out a girl’s asshole, he shouts.

Oh, boy.

Humming silence.

I love to eat asshole, he says again.

The drunk is going to touch her any minute and she’s going to freak out. I have a gun in my pocket. I could show it to him, if he touches her. Everyone is watching but no one has moved. The drunk reaches for her hair with one trembling hand but the black girl doesn’t freak out. She laughs and the drunk’s hand falls as if it suddenly became too heavy for him to carry. He wanders away.

Lonely.

I almost miss John Ransom Miller. He was a freak but at least I had a sense of purpose when I was following him. And he would have loved the drunk guy, the asshole eater. I take out his ruby ring and slip it onto my finger. Rumble and sigh and here comes the train. I wonder what time it is. Every other car is packed with flesh but mine is ghostly, quiet. I turn my face to black windows and no one pays me any mind.

Downtown. I retrace my steps past Nieman Marcus and back to the King James. There is a different doorman on duty. This guy is massive, maybe a foot taller than me. His arms are the size of my thighs and his face is like a fat gray melon, with small dark eyes sunk into gray skin. Thin cruel mouth. He shrugs and opens the door with a grunt.

What happened to Jeremy? I say.

Don’t know, he says. Punk called in sick.

Too bad.

Why? he says.

I shake my head. No reason.

There’s nothing Jeremy can get what I can’t get. You need a whore?

Not yet.

T
HROUGH THE MEDIEVAL LOBBY
. Empty as before. The elevator, the isolation chamber. I chew at a fingernail and find myself thinking of Molly. The way her color rose and fell. She made me a sandwich and I am so stupid that only now does it occur to me that she was the phantom cello player. The love song for Anna Marie that haunted us down in the Lizard Room. I wonder if she was just fucking with us.

I come to room 1221 and remember that Jude has stripped me of my key. This irritates me, now. I feel like a delivery boy, a chump. I knock on the door and after a long suffering silence I get the ticklish sensation that someone is breathing on the other side, eyeballing me through the peephole.

Jude. What the fuck.

The door opens slowly and the temperature changes. Jeremy the doorman stands there.

Hey, he says. The smile melting across his face.

Jeremy is not wearing a shirt. He wears pale blue jeans. He is barefoot. I glance down at my boots. I am technically still in the hallway. I
am outside the room. Jeremy leans against the open door, against the flat of his hand. He looks comfortable. He has an underwear model’s body, muscular. Tattoo of a monkey’s head above the left nipple. Jeremy has a washboard stomach but my teeth are better than his. He’s got a mouthful of crooked, fucked-up choppers that indicate poor breeding.

Jeremy, I say.

Jude’s in the bathroom, he says.

Yeah?

Jeremy shrugs and lets go of the door. It swings toward me, silent as a puff of smoke. Jeremy drifts back into the room. I catch the door and stand there a moment. Rapid heartbeat and a basket of snakes in my skull.

Here we go. Things get complicated.

I follow Jeremy into the room. Pause to glance at the bathroom door. Slash of yellow light at the floor. Listen and breathe and stare at the door until it pulses and for a moment I expect to hear Jude’s thoughts, her voice in my head. I wonder if I love her. I wonder if it’s relevant. Two hours ago, I touched another woman’s hand. I felt her pulse and I wanted her. It was a physiological reaction, molecular. People crash into each other and things get interesting. Jude may have fucked this guy and she may not have and maybe she’s in the bathtub right now, washing his juices from her body.

Jeremy sits on the floor, smoking a cigarette. I go to the vanity sink and pour myself a glass of gin. The sink is a nightmare of ashtrays and Chinese take-out. In the heart of the mess is a blue plate flecked with cocaine. Beside it is a big fat hunting knife, like a small sword. I remember the stiletto Jude used to carry. It was a nasty weapon and
she wielded it like it was part of her, like a talon freakishly evolved. I taste the gin and it might as well be water. I find myself staring at Jeremy’s bare feet.

What size shoes do you wear?

Nine, he says.

Those would be your running shoes, then.

Jeremy glances over at the glass coffee table, where the blue and yellow sneakers fairly glow.

Yeah, he says.

Why are you here, Jeremy?

I’m waiting.

For what?

You should talk to Jude about that. I’m not in charge.

Imagine.

Jeremy shrugs. How did you like that magic milkshake?

Delicious, I say.

He blows smoke at me, thin and blue. I put down the glass of gin and pick up the knife.

I’m glad you liked it, he says.

Yeah. Why don’t you put your shoes on.

Jeremy smiles and closes his eyes and I take two, three steps forward to crouch beside him with the knife. He flinches away and I grab him by the hair. His eyes are wide open, now.

I’m not going to cut you, I say.

Okay, he says.

Did you fuck her?

He hesitates. No.

I don’t care if you fucked her. That’s her business.

The hair, he says. Please, man. Let go of the hair.

Jeremy, I say. You may have fucked Jude today, or been fucked
by her.

Listen, man.

You may fuck her in the future. It doesn’t matter. But you are a guest in this room, a visitor. You are an employee of this hotel and I don’t like it when you smile at me.

Okay, he says.

Pick a body part, any body part.

Why?

I changed my mind. I’m going to cut you after all.

Then silence. I wonder if Jude is listening to this sorry episode of male theater. My knees are trembling and I will have to stand up soon.

The arm, says Jeremy. The left arm, if you don’t mind.

You want me to cut your left arm?

He grunts at me, his face red. This is enough for me. I don’t feel better, exactly. I feel different and now I let go of his hair and he falls away from the knife. I stand up slowly, legs still trembling.

You’re not going to cut me?

Not today.

Jeremy grins. I think a knife scar might look cool, actually.

Yeah, I say. Put your shoes on.

I want to stay.

Whatever. I just don’t want to look at your naked fucking feet.

The bathroom door is not locked. I knock softly, then push it open. Jude wears snug leopard pants and a black T-shirt too big for her. That’s my shirt. She is leaning into the mirror as if to kiss it. She is doing something to her eyes, her eyelashes.

She is barefoot, like Jeremy.

You’re wearing my shirt, I say.

I hope you don’t mind, she says.

No. I don’t mind.

Are you okay, honey? she says. You’re stuttering.

What’s happening here, Jude.

Be specific, please.

I slip Miller’s ruby ring from my finger and drop it into the sink. Bright and clattering red against hard white porcelain then disappearing down the open drain.

Jude frowns. I hope he didn’t want that back, she says.

Fuck him. The guy’s a freak.

He’s a wealthy freak, she says.

I light a cigarette and Jude extends her left hand. She wants to share. I ignore her for a moment. Then pass her the cigarette.

He wants to make a snuff film, I say.

Yeah, she says. He’s just a tiny bit nuts.

No shit.

Jude shrugs. He’s sitting on a pile of money.

That’s nice.

What’s the problem?

Where the fuck should I start?

Do you have to swear constantly?

Are you fucking kidding?

Please, she says. I’m so tired of that word.

Fuck fuck fuck, I say. Fucking fuck. When did you get so fucking sensitive?

Are you finished?

Listen to me, please. I just spent four very scary hours with the man. If we make this film with him, somebody is going to die.

Maybe, she says. Maybe not. The most interesting art is a little dangerous.

Oh, please. Don’t give me that shit.

Her voice goes cold. Take a good look at my face and tell me about danger.

I’m sorry.

And don’t sulk, she says. It’s not attractive.

Look, I say. By definition, you can’t make a snuff film without a victim.

She shrugs. Some victims are predestined.

I suppose you’re too clever to get waxed, I say.

Jude smiles and blows smoke at her reflection.

What about me? I say. I’m not so clever.

Phineas is only stupid when he’s drunk, she says.

Maybe, I say. But I tend to drink a lot, when I’m with you.

Jude shrugs. I will keep an eye on you, then.

That’s comforting.

Jude finishes reconstructing her eyes and turns to look at me. What do you think? she says.

I stare at her. I can’t tell the difference.

Jude sighs. What do you think about the film, she says.

I have my doubts about the concept, I say. The genre seems… played.

Listen, she says. Miller is going to give us a million dollars and deliver us MacDonald Cody on a silver plate. I don’t care if he wants to shoot a remake of
Old Yeller
with fucking Muppets.

Travis? I say. Where you going with that gun in your hand?

Jude smiles. That poor boy.

Did you ever see that snuff film flick with Nicolas Cage?

Yawn, she says. And I love Nicolas Cage. I would watch him eat soup. But after two hours of him looking worried and morally compromised…I was ready to scream.

What kind of soup?

Jude stares at me. Campbell’s tomato.

Long silence. I watch her in the mirror. I flush the toilet, restless.

This bathroom needs a sofa, I say.

Miller called, she says. Just now. He said you were quite taken with Molly.

I chew at my lip. Yeah.

Well, she says. You wouldn’t want her to be the victim, would you.

Oh, you bitch. That’s why you wanted me to follow him home.

Perhaps.

Jude sits on the edge of the tub and turns on the hot water.

Okay. Let’s talk about Jeremy, then.

Who? she says.

The half-naked boy watching TV in our bed.

Oh, she says. Jeremy wants to make movies when he grows up, just like everyone else on this sad fucking planet. He’s very clever with a camera. And we need someone behind the camera.

How old is Jeremy?

The room slowly fills with steam. Jude pulls the black shirt over her head. Leopard print bra and yellow skin. Today, she is a cat.

Jeremy? Twenty-two, she says. Adorable, isn’t he?

Umm, yes. Why is he here?

He quit his day job, she says. I told him he could stay here until we begin the shoot.

That was nice of you.

Phineas. Are you jealous?

I don’t get jealous. Shit, two hours ago I wanted to fuck Molly.

Jude rolls her eyes. Why does this bother you, then?

I don’t like surprises. I want some privacy with you. I don’t want
a stranger in the cocoon.

Please. The cocoon is an illusion.

Where will he sleep?

I don’t know, she says. There are two beds.

And three of us.

Jude turns off the water and the silence is sudden. Dripping.

Yes, she says. There are three of us. I like him and I imagine you like him. Maybe you would like to explore some of your multicultural urges.